Notwithstanding the violence of the rain yesterday, the
Capitol Square, the streets around it, and the adjacent houses, were crowded.
The President stood at the base of that noble equestrian statue of Washington,
and took the oath which was taken by the “Father of his Country” more than
seventy years ago — just after the “great rebellion,” in the success of which
we all, from Massachusetts to Georgia, so heartily gloried. No wonder that he
spoke as if he were inspired. Was it not enough to inspire him to have the
drawn sword of Washington, unsheathed in defence of his invaded country,
immediately over his head, while the other hand of his great prototype points
encouragingly to the South? Had he not the life-like representations of
Jefferson, George Mason, and, above all, of Patrick Henry, by his side? The
latter with his scroll in his outstretched hand, his countenance beaming, his
lips almost parted, and seeming on the point of bursting into one blaze of
eloquence in defence of his native South. How could Southern tongues remain
quiet, or Southern hearts but burn within us, when we beheld our heroes, living
and dead, surrounding and holding up the hands of our great chief? By
him stood his cabinet, composed of the talent and the patriotism of the land;
then was heard the voice of our beloved Assistant Bishop, in tones of fervid
eloquence, beseeching the blessings of Heaven on our great undertaking. I would
that every young man, from the Potomac to the Rio Grande, could have witnessed
the scene.
Last night was the first levee. The rooms were crowded. The
President looked weary and grave, but was all suavity and cordiality, and Mrs.
Davis won all hearts by her usual unpretending kindness. I feel proud to have
those dear old rooms, arousing as they do so many associations of my childhood
and youth, filled with the great, the noble, the fair of our land, every
heart beating in unison, with one great object in view, and no wish beyond its
accomplishment, as far as this world is concerned. But to-day is Saturday, and
I must go to the hospital to take care of our sick — particularly to nurse our
little soldier-boy. Poor child, he is very ill!
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 95-6
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